These are the Days of Our Lives
by PlanetOfTheWeepingWillow
Summary: Francis and Arthur have sustained a fairly decent life off of a small shop just across the street from their house, as well as a remarkable life surrounding it. Human AU, implied character death, one-shot.


"I'll tend to the shop today."

"You will _not_."

Arthur pressed his palms to his sides and pushed. His elbows quaked and his face grew even paler. After a moment of painful struggle, he gave Francis a hard look, and sat back down.

"Fine, man the shop today."

Francis paused by the door, his keys hanging limp from his hands. He stared into the living room where Arthur sat, like a broken bird. Well, a very angry and broken bird. Arthur's arms were crossed tightly, his sweater now hanging from his thinned arms.

The sunlight cut into the living room, landing on the dormant television and illuminating the dust like speckled stars. Francis hesitated, sighing softly. Arthur heard and raised his head, pinning him with another look. The fire that had lit his eyes began to soften.

"I can call an assistant in today." Francis said.

"Today's a sunday."

"And? I'm sure Ilene or someone would fill in for us today. She would understand."

Arthur huffed. "Ilene is old and dotty. She'd forget to give change back or, if she didn't, she'd give the person too much."

"Better than closing shop."

"We're losing money that way."

"We're losing either way."

Arthur leaned back on the couch, tilting his head up and staring at the ceiling. Nicotine remains spiralled against the white plaster. It reminded him of those days, folly-filled and rampant with youthful ignorance. They had smoked and gotten drunk under this spot. Although that energy was long gone, the scars remained.

Maybe not scars. More like stains.

"Do you want me to get you something, then?" Francis said, taking another step towards the door.

Arthur uncrossed his arms and reached to his side. His crooked, bony fingers wrapped in a thin sheet of skin spread against a notebook. He tapped it, peeling it up to show the laptop beneath. Its light shone dimly. "I have everything I need to complete it." It was his third attempt at writing a novel. It should have been his fiftieth, or hundredth, had life been kinder.

"Food?"

Arthur said nothing.

Francis approached him, leaning down. Arthur looked up. His eyes were a hazy green. They shut when Francis kissed him. Soft lips against a dry, chapped mouth. Francis felt Arthur's face twitch into a smile.

"Call if you need anything, my love."

Arthur grunted.

Francis left, tossing a striped scarf around his neck and adjusting his coat. Cheap apparel made to look fancy. Old habits never truly died with Francis. Arthur heard him lock the door with a click, followed by his boots descending quickly down the stairs with even clacks.

Once gone, Arthur allowed the tears to flow. They came quietly, like men sneaking out of their camps for battle. Then, quickly, collecting speed and merging into an even stream. Arthur lowered his head into his palms, his shoulders trembly with sobs.

"I need you." He whispered into his hands.

Outside, the birds twittered.

Below the summery trees dappled with sunlight, and across the crooked streets, was a convenience store. Flowers lined the outside, beaming in the warmth. Francis stood inside of it, pulling his coat off and his apron on. He didn't really need it, since he and Arthur lived in the apartment block just across the street. But it never hurt to look good.

The door was open and the lights were off. It was only sullen in the back where the cash register was. The streets were empty of people. Francis had a sunken feeling that business would be sluggish. He could feel the last drops of money they had begin to slip away. Maybe it was time to find a different job and sell the shop.

He considered it as he walked outside with a broom, clearing the path before the store of fallen petals. It would bring in more money, he thought. But it would also mean going further away. Here, if Arthur had an emergency, he could run out easily and be there in less than five minutes.

He manned shop for the first thirty minutes, seeing as no one was interested. He dusted the counters, checked the cans, aligned the shelves, plucked off dead petals, made marks on his formal documents, and hummed softly to himself. Everything in order. Just as Arthur liked.

Francis went to the back and stood there, watching the early risers trickle by through the streets. He wouldn't have had to do the work if he had coworkers. But even when money wasn't too bad and he didn't have to let anyone go, it was usually a two or three person shop. Namely him and Arthur. Sometimes a young woman who had gotten into trouble, or a young man who needed work experience, or even an elderly person who had grown lost and distant through the passing years and needed something to keep their hands busy.

The shop wasn't hard to manage. Except for the flowers, nothing needed to be tended to as readily as produce or meat.

His phone buzzed.

Francis picked it up and answered.

"Hello." Arthur said on the other end.

"You know I could have been dealing with a customer." Francis said, without an ounce of anger.

"I can see the shop, froggy."

Francis smiled.

Arthur must have smiled, too.

"Anyway, why don't you get some customers in?"

"And how would I do that?"

"Stand outside."

"And what? Dance? Sing? Call on Lovino to do an opera?"

Arthur guffawed, or perhaps coughed. "No. With your looks you could draw in people like flies."

"I am old, Arthur. You must not see me properly."

"No, you've aged like fine wine."

"You don't even like fine wine."

"I say, regain some of your confidence and stop mucking around." Something in his voice suggested that his blatant cheerfulness was half-fabricated. Francis' smile began to melt. "Go outside, smile, wave, bring people in. Or, at least, do it for me."

Something in his last four words caused a murmur of energy to flow through Francis.

"Alright. But if I get mocked at and called an old man trying too hard, I will openly blame you."

"I can deal with that." Arthur paused. "I love you. Good luck."

"I love you." Francis said.

Omitting the "too" had become their tradition. That way it was two direct arrows of affection sprung on one another, without a hint of reflection. Pure feeling, bouncing from heart to heart. He couldn't remember who had started it at this point.

Tucking his phone away, Francis walked outside. The sun was beginning to heat up. He flicked his eyes upwards. Above the slanted shadow thrown across the building, he could see their apartment. The windows were drawn. He saw Arthur looking down at him, looking almost healthy again, and giving him a cheeky grin.

Francis looked around, taking a deep breath. He allowed an old smile of his creep up on his features. His eyes crinkled, making them look like gems embedded in years of laughter. His beard was trimmed and neat. His hair was the same even, smooth golden curls. Except now a few waves of grey had run through it, making it look nearly silver.

His body was still in firm, perhaps less dense as before, but still able and full. He rolled his sleeves up, showing off his muscled forearms. Just as he did, an idea came to him. He went back inside.

Arthur, watching from the window, pushed his thinning eyebrows together.

"What is he…?" he breathed, fogging up the window.

Francis returned, holding a bouquet of small, five-petalled blue flowers. Forget-me-nots. Francis had chosen a symbol. He held out one to Arthur. Arthur began to blush, pulling away from the window. His heart thundered. It had been, what, nearly thirty years since they had met. And Francis still could make him dizzy.

A woman walked by Francis, older by the looks of it, and looking around the streets. Francis walked up to her. "Excuse me, ma'am, would you like one?"

She started, turning to him. She eyed the flowers.

"Odd, usually they give out roses before shops."

Francis flashed her a smile.

"Why give out roses? They have so many meanings."

She took one of the forget-me-nots, rolling its thin stem between her fingers.

Francis continued, seeing as she had cocked an ear to him.

"Roses can mean anything from secrecy to unity, depending on its bloom and colour. Whereas forget-me-nots have two simple meanings: memories and true love."

"I didn't know flowers had meanings." She said.

"Not many do."

Perhaps, then, there was a little spot of magic in the world which could be so cruel. Arthur had returned to the window, looking out. Francis had attracted a group of women, handing out flowers and boasting about their meanings. A steady stream had begun to move in. Francis went in.

Again, the shop was alive.

It had started out as a flower shop. That was what Francis wanted, and what Arthur liked. They could sell them in bouquets or gifts. They would reveal the hidden meanings behind them, or the symbolisms they held in various cultures. The sudden intrigue would lighten people. They had hoped.

For a year and a half it had worked.

Then, magic must have begun to weaken, because less and less people showed up. Until, soon, there were maybe two or three regulars from when they opened the shop. One was a fabric store owner. He had suggested they keep the flowers, but add other things to the shop.

"Liquor and cigarettes." Francis suggested.

Arthur laughed meekly and pinched him from behind the counter. He had quit drinking when Francis quit smoking.

The man suggested more commonly needed things, like toiletries and snacks.

Their store evolved, adding new additions, and working well. Life seemed to have a clear path yet again.

People, mostly women, walked out of their shop now. Some had plastic bags hanging by their sides. Nearly all had flowers. One group consisted of tourists. Another of the elderly. Arthur smiled at the memories, thinking of blue forget-me-nots.

. . .

Francis lay down next to Arthur. Arthur lay on his back, Francis' warm arms draped over him. An oxygen tank sat next to their bed, its clear tubes looping up and into his nostrils. His breathing was slow, deliberate, pensive.

"Did you get to write?" Francis asked.

"I was watching you most of the time."

"Did you write?" He asked again.

Arthur smiled. "A little, yes."

"Good." Francis squeezed him gently. He closed his eyes and placed his head next to Arthur's. The weakness had cost him his hair and cheeks. He still didn't look quite like a skeleton. Or maybe that was the hopefulness and craziness that love brought him.

Arthur hummed.

"Maybe…"

"Maybe?"

"Maybe I won't be able to finish it."

Francis said nothing.

"No. Sorry, I was wrong."

Francis kept his breath in. Not ready to release it. No words could heal him. It was past that time now. The dangerous, sharp word had long since sapped any hope out of their future. Cancer. It was worse than any curse Francis had been called. It was worse than any slur anyone had ever spat at them when they walked together or had date. Cancer. It was cold, unforgiving, technical.

"I am definitely not going to be able to finish it."

"Don't say that…"

"It's the hard truth. You've known me to face it. Hell, I've faced your truths more than you have."

"Monsieur Fluff didn't really die. He went to the peach orchard to live happily with butterflies." Francis muttered.

Arthur smiled.

"I'm sorry, hon, but he's with the big fish in the sky."

Francis mocked whimpering.

"Remember when my brother went to prison?" Arthur asked in a gentler tone.

"Oh, do remind me."

Arthur pinched him. Hard as he could, it was no more than a light tap. Francis cuddled him closer.

"Well, I recall how you tried to convince me he was still a good human being, and that drinking was only a trifling little problem."

Francis said nothing.

"I should have been more concerned about my brother. Driving drunk like that."

"Then you quit drinking." Francis said, sighing. "And you forced me to quit smoking."

"I didn't force you. You don't force someone into doing anything. You can't make them doing anything for you. You can nudge them in the right direction."

"My love, that was not a nudge. If that was a nudge then the Great Wall of China was a pebble."

"Maybe, but it was your choice in the end if you quit."

Francis snuggled into his neck. The laughter and memories had begun to slough away into the sombre present. Arthur wouldn't let that happen just yet, though.

"Remember Truffle?"

"Our first and only dog?"

"Yes, that big old Newfoundland."

"What about him?"

Arthur began to chuckle. "Remember…" he stumbled, rumbling with laughter, "Remember how he scared Ivan so badly… by running up behind him and hopping on his shoulders… that Ivan cried out… then began to curse since it was… a dog…"

Francis raised his eyebrows, starting to laugh too. He ran his hand down Arthur's stomach. Arthur tilted his head back, howling now. Tears trickled down his face for the second time that day.

The memories unfolded.

Remember when Ludwig's daughter played with your curling iron and Ludwig was so baffled he had one that he almost forgot she could burn herself?

Remember when you wanted to pluck your eyebrows back in high school but they grew back before the morning?

Remember when you lost your wedding ring and started to cry?

Remember when we nearly relapsed that one night and fought each other getting out the door to get to the bar? And gave up because we were already so tired from withdrawal?

Remember us?

Remember our life?

Francis smiled at Arthur, closing his eyes and resting his chin on his head.

"Remember Queen?"

"I'm a little beat, my love. But of course. How could I forget?"

Arthur grinned.

"I like that one song by them."

"That's awfully specific."

" _These are the Days of Our Lives._ The words… I must seem terribly old saying this."

"We're the same age, love. Or nearly so. I forget."

" _'The bad things in life were so few. Those days are all gone now, but, one thing is true. When I look, and I find, I still love you.'_ " Arthur said, not singing.

"Oh. He died of different reason though."

"Does that matter?"

Arthur looked at him evenly, then smiled. He leaned forwards and kissed him. "Good night, love."

"Good night." Francis leaned over.

That last bit of magic from the day must have lingered, because he had a feeling that was the last time those words would leave his mouth.

"And such a grand, great life it was." Arthur muttered as the light was extinguished, and the room sunk into darkness.

* * *

 _i do not own hetalia or Freddie Mercury._


End file.
